I know she’s afraid of what will happen when I go back to the hospital. She’s worried that the scales will tip, and my work will take precedence over hers. I can tell her until I go red in the face that won’t happen, but she won’t believe it until she sees it.
It hurts that she doesn’t trust me. But I don’t hold it against her. This is, after all, my doing.
Headlights wash over the driveway. A smile tugs at my lips. My wife’s home. I’m happy. How simple is that, huh?
I go into the house and meet Jayne by the kitchendoor. She looks exhausted, wrung out by her day. Her shoulders slump, her blouse is wrinkled, and her eyes have that sharp, tired sheen I used to see in the mirror every night.
In her case, it happens occasionally. It’s not a regular thing, which makes it palatable. I won’t let her spiral as I did. That’s a promise.
“Hey.” I take her bag from her and kiss her lips. “I was about to text you.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I stayed late. The client?—”
“Shh.” I set her bag on the kitchen counter. “Have you eaten?”
She shakes her head.
“Get changed while I heat food for you.”
She smiles wanly at me. “What did you cook?”
“I finally got the chicken marsala right!”
“I can’t wait to taste it.”
I heat water to cook fresh tagliatelle and turn on the oven to heat the chicken.
I pour a glass of white wine for her, set the table, and even light a candle.
The water is boiling by the time she comes back. “Sit, have some wine, and I’ll have the food ready in no time.”
“You know, you’ve gotten really good at cooking.” She sniffs the wine and then takes a tentative sip.
“Youthink so?”
“Well, I have to eat the marsala to be sure,” she teases.
“Baby, this is gonna knock your socks off. The kids said it’s the best meal they’ve ever eaten…or the best meal that I’ve ever cooked that they’ve eaten.” I drop the pasta into the water and stir. “It’s fuzzy.”
She leans back in her chair, and that exhaustion, which had been there just moments ago is gone. She used to do this for me before we slid into a cycle of bitterness and avoidance.
I plate the food as artistically as I can and put it in front of her.
“This is amazing,” she declares after taking a bite.
“Oh, fuck, wait.” I rush to the fridge and pull out the chopped parsley I saved for garnish, sprinkling it over the chicken and pasta. “Now it’s ready,signora.”
“Grazie mille, signore.”
I sit with her while she eats, listening as she tells me about her day.
The avalanche of emails, the merger headaches, the million tiny fires she put out with that calm competence I’m still learning to match.
And as she talks, I feel something I haven’t felt in weeks.
The faint tug of missing work. Missing the part of my brain that solves impossible puzzles. Missing the tension of a room where the next decision matters.
Sure, making chicken marsala isn’t easy, but it’s still a hell of a lot easier than cracking a sternum.
